


The Dark Sky

by KSLoops



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Indigenous, Native American Character(s), Native American/First Nations History, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 08:36:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15481848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KSLoops/pseuds/KSLoops
Summary: Sitting Bull is a legendary figure who has more than earned his place in history. But what if that history is trapped in flux? What if someone, or something, starts to erase an entire lifetime of struggle and achievement?Enter the strange being known as Lumen-92.





	The Dark Sky

Sitting Bull stands on the crest of a hill and smooths the mane of his borrowed horse. He sticks his other hand into his pocket and looks out over the land below. The sun sets behind thick pine trees. The light at their trunks pinks snowdrifts and casts spindly purple shadows across the path ahead.  

His breaths unfurls in the air. “Are you going to come out or stay in the bushes?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He glances back the way he came.

“Are you cold? Your horse looks cold.”

“The day’s heat goes with the sun.” Sitting Bull gently rubs the gelding’s neck. “Have you come to stop us?”

“Yes.”

The air suddenly warms around them both. A tall figure stalks out of the tree line dressed in thin black garments. The silhouette is decidedly female, but taller than any man and pale as bleached bone. As she steps closer, he sees an odd mask and odder white hair styled like his horse’s tail.

“You look strange,” he says.

She stops six feet from him. Her footprints in the snow immediately disappear as if no one stepped there at all. “ _You_ look strange.”    

“Are you with Bullhead?”

“I know the name….” She taps her jaw and lights flash across her mask. “Ah, he should’ve k….”

Her voice abruptly trails off. They regard each other for a moment. Since Sitting Bull is warm, he clasps his hands together and waits. It takes nearly a full minute of awkward silence before the woman speaks again.

“My name’s Lumen-92.”

“Lumen-92.” He inclines his head as if nothing is amiss. “I am Sitting Bull.”

“I know.” She pauses. “Sorry. I’ve never done this before.” When he doesn’t take the bait, she adds, “This is my job, you know.”

“Assassination?”

“No!” She puffs up like an irritated hen. “I’m a quantum engineer.”

Sitting Bull nods. The words and accent are unfamiliar, but the tone is exactly the same. “I would like to pass.”

“You can’t. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You are not the first White to tell me that.” The corners of his mouth quirk upwards. “And you will not be the last.”

“No, _here_. Not a where, a when.” Lumen sighs irritably and scans the countryside for inspiration. “You’re…a crack in the ice. Every minute you’re out of sync is like a footstep. Eventually the ice breaks.”

He purses his lips. “These things you are telling me. Are they secret?”

“Yes.”

“So you would not tell me if you did not intend to kill me?”

“I’m not going to kill you, but yes. It does make confidentiality easier.”

“It would have been easier if you had lied.”

Lumen simply looks at him. “Lying is only useful in three dimensions.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Because time is linear.” She leans forward slightly with an air of anticipation. “It’s a good character trait.”

Sitting Bull stares at her. “Is that a joke?”

“Yes. Well, maybe.” Lumen tilts her head and her ghostly pony’s tail slants behind her. “I don’t really understand this century’s humor.”

He looks over his shoulder again. “I need to pass, Lumen.”

“Your wife and son,” she supplies. “You can’t reach them now.”

He turns, wedges his boot in the left stirrup, and hefts himself onto the gelding. He pulls the reins so they face the way he came. Lumen stands in front of him. When he looks over his shoulder, she stands there, too.

Lumen points to the western sky. “Is the sun moving?”

Sitting Bull draws in a deep breath and looks. The sun hasn’t inched toward the horizon in the past ten minutes. When it’s this low, it should be slipping beneath the hills. The shadows haven’t moved, either. No foot or hoof prints mark the snow around him.

“Am I dead?”

“No,” she says apologetically, “but you will be.”

“And who are you to decide such things?”

“I’m Lumen-92.”

He stares hard at her. “I want to see my family.”

“They’re in the past.”

“It is in your power to bring me back to them?”

“Yes.”

“But you will not.”

“Not until I know who changed your life and why.”

He leans toward his horse’s ear and murmurs softly while patting its neck. When he sits up in the saddle, his spine is ram-rod straight. He squeezes its flanks and leans forward. The gelding grunts and trots ahead, then begins to gallop, and veers around Lumen without prompting.

“You can’t leave,” she shouts, suddenly distant. “The physics are changing. Your atoms will rip—”  

The horse plants its hooves and rears back with a scream. The hill they crossed not a few moments ago is distended and blue-tinted. He feels a great tug on his body that seeks to drag him away from it. His horse’s head begins to twist and bend in the same manner. He raises his hand and it does the same. Darkness encroaches on his peripheral vision. He turns to see a starless black sky yawning open behind him.

“Away!” He squeezes the horses flanks, but it responds slowly as if trapped in mud.

The black sky moves faster to swallow his view. The snowy hill glows blue and narrows into a circular point that shrinks until it’s nothing but small white seam. Red light arises as if he’s seeing a second dusk and—

The ground falls out from underneath Sitting Bull. He gulps in a final breath, but everything snaps back into view. The road. His horse’s muscles scrunch up beneath him and he hops off before it bucks. His feet hit solid earth. He overbalances and falls into the snow. It’s wet and cold and pinked by sunlight. The gelding gallops away, but comes up sharply at another invisible boundary. It makes a few laps in a circle and stands near the tree line, coat slick, body shivering.  

Lumen is bent on one knee, head bowed. Her breaths rasp behind her mask like a saw. Her skin is covered in pink sweat as if she walked through a mist of blood.

“I can’t pull you back a second time,” she croaks. “Please don’t do that again.”

He looks over at the hill. It appears normal, but no sign of his tracks or his horse’s mar the snow. Sitting Bull takes a steeling breath and stands up, his joints creaking in protest. The gelding’s coat now glistens with frozen sweat. The cold is back.

“We need a fire,” he says.  

Lumen slowly drags herself to her feet. She gestures carelessly and the cold vanishes. “Plant matter is an inefficient fuel. Better to agitate molecules in the air and be done with it.”

“There is value in traditions, Lumen.”

She doesn’t reply. Perhaps it goes over her head. He turns away before she can speak and approaches the gelding. It regards him with rolling brown eyes, ears flicked back. He stands a few feet away, doesn’t press for what isn’t given, and eventually holds out his hand. The horse’s nostrils flare and its ears give another flick, but when he doesn’t move, it cautiously snuffles at his fingers. Its nose is velvet soft and warm. The tension slowly leaves its body and he knows it’s safe to approach again. He removes the bridle and hangs it across the saddle. The pack behind the seat holds an old jacket and pants. He recognizes the uniform of an Indian Agent. It’ll do.

He undoes the cinch and gently pats the horse’s coat down. Despite the warmth provided by Lumen and her agitated molecules, the animal still shivers. His doing. He gently strokes its forehead, the spots behind its ears, and draws its mane away from its eyes. When he switches sides, the horse lowers its head and paws at the snow. Tufts of grass spring up before vanishing. It catches on quickly enough. Sitting Bull pats its flank and watches it paw again and root out as much grass as it can before the snow closes over its handiwork. Out of sync or not, the horse munches noisily. It’s a reassuring sound. He finishes drying as much sweat as he can off the horse’s haunches and steps back to give it a final pat. The smell reminds him of home and better days.

“Where are you from, Lumen?”

She takes her time answering. “Sagittarius A.”  

“I have not heard of it. Is that a small place?”

“It’s the center of our galaxy.”

“I see.” He gestures towards a relatively flat stone jutting out of the snow. “You should sit on this.”

“My clothes are hydrophobic microinsulate, but thank you.”

He sits down on it instead. The sun still hasn’t moved closer to the horizon. “Family?”

“What?”

“Do you have family? Kin? A people who know you?”

“I….” Lumen cocks her head. “I have a superior officer. Clones aren’t arranged in social units. Our lives are too short and specialized. It would only complicate things.”

Sitting Bull’s stare sharpens. “A clone?”

“We copy people like you copy books. I’m the ninety-second clone of the original Lumen. I have all her expertise, but my death doesn’t extinguish her skill-set.” At his expression, she hastens to add, “It’s completely safe. The true Lumen suffers no ill-effects from this process.”

“But you do.”

She wipes the fine spritzing of blood from the back of her neck. “I was created for this task. I’m satisfied in spite of the danger. Maybe even because of it. You’re a military leader.” She rubs her fingers together and the blood dissipates. “Don’t you feel the same?”

“No,” he says firmly. “I fight so no one can steal who we are.”

Lumen abruptly faces forward. “I wish we’d met under different circumstances.”

He averts his eyes towards the horse, which contents itself by ripping up the same patch of grass from the same spot of ground.  

“We thought it would be a person who caused this.” She rests her chin on her knees, which emphasizes the alien proportions of her body. “But you’re caught in an Incursion Event.”

“The dark sky.”

“Yes. That’s Sagittarius A. It’s a black hole. It twists time and place into inescapable knots. Very strong, very dangerous. Sometimes these knots can rope through linear time. They create interference, split reality, change events.”

His eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. “And you live in this hole?”

“No.” She laughs a little. “We live near it. Sag A’s presence makes space-time a little more malleable so engineers like me can do our job.”

“Before you die,” Sitting Bull says.

Lumen inclines her head. “Before I die.”

He stays silent for a while. “What was meant to happen to me?”

“You’re supposed to be shot during an arrest.”

“I see.” He looks up at the sky, which is frozen in a myriad of reds, golds, and purples. “My wife and son?”

“Your wife lives.”

He sucks in a harsh breath. “The Lakota? The other Sioux?”

“They suffer and recover.”

“How long do they suffer, Lumen?”

“Centuries.”

“And you would send me back to this.”

“As long as you’re here, the Incursion continues.”

“And if I face the dark sky?”

“You’ll cease to exist. It’ll be as if you were never born, which will alter millions of lives while Sag A warps the timeline. It would be catastrophic.”

Sitting Bull sighs. “Most of what you say sounds like nonsense. When you do make sense, I wish you would lie.”

She cranes her neck to look at him over her knees. When he doesn’t meet her gaze, she tentatively reaches for his hand. Her fingers are too long and thin to pass as normal, but they’re warm when they curl around his pinkie. He’s reminded of his son as a small boy and that stirs a well of grief so deep he can scarcely endure it. He flinches back. Her arm remains outstretched for a moment, then drops to her side like a dead branch.

He clears his throat. “If I do as you ask, what would happen?”

“You would slip back into your time. I would hold Sag A here for as long as I could. Lumen-93 and 94 would ensure the timeline returned to its natural state.”

“They would not help?”

“When I pulled you back, I became a part of the Incursion Event. It’s irrational for Sagittarius Command to extract me when it has countless replacements.”

Sitting Bull stands up and begins to slowly pace through the snow. Every time he turns, he watches his own footprints disappear. He finally stops in front of Lumen. She looks up at him, the black spectacles in her mask reflect the setting sun.

“I have no wish to die yet,” he says. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Then come with me. We will remake this future.”

Lumen jerks her head back as if he slapped her. “I’d be violating temporal law. Sag Com would hunt me down.”

“Let them.”

She stands up and towers over him. They each take measure of the other. She finally reaches for her mask and removes it. Sitting Bull doesn’t react, but it’s difficult. Her face is oval with sharp features he associates with Europeans. The similarities end there. Her forehead is bulbous, her jaw small, and her eyes are disproportionately large with pupils so dilated they look black. Only a thin blue ring differentiates the iris. She carries no color in her cheeks or lips. If she wasn’t standing before him, he’d think her dead.

“I’m from thousands of years in your future. Humans change. Could people accept this?”

“Some will, some will not.”

“Now I understand the lying thing.” She puts her mask back on and it makes a loud metallic click. “Ready? We’ll need the horse.”

Sitting Bull retrieves the gelding and buckles its cinch. It grunts in protest and he pats its shoulder. Lumen extends her left arm and taps her wrist. A small compartment opens to reveal two silver cylinders. She grasps them and tucks one under her arm while holding the other up in the air. It chirps not unlike a bird and flashes blue light. Then it takes flight and hums towards a spot near the roadside.

“Stand here,” she says. “These are our most stable coordinates.”

Both he and the gelding follow the hovering marker. His horse huffs air and flicks his ears back. Sitting Bull scowls as the second strange device hums around them to hover at his back. Lumen taps her other arm and two more silver cylinders appear. They take to the air and complete the pattern: a rough rectangle. It could also be described as coffin-shaped, but he doesn’t say so.

Shapes flicker across Lumen’s mask like small auroras. “Your entanglement with Sag A is generating tremendous drag. This is going to be difficult.”

She gestures to the lead marker between them. Its humming increases and it puts out incredible heat. The air shimmers. The other markers begin to heat and hum in sympathy. The gelding stamps nervously. Light suddenly shoots lengthways around them. Bright burning white. Sitting Bull’s insides are squeezed together as if a great hand is trying to push him down through the earth.

The sky yawns open above them. The markers scream like the horse. The trees begin to twist and blacken until they’re indistinguishable from the darkness overhead. Lumen stands on the other side of the light, her entire body wavering and stretching. She’s going to stay. She’s going to let herself be devoured.

Sitting Bull holds out his hand. When he reaches past the marker, each of his fingers feel like they weigh as much as his horse. If he reaches further, his arm will be torn from its socket.

“Come with me,” he shouts. “Lumen!”

She doesn’t move. Her body takes on a reddish hue and starts to thin to the breaking point.

He stretches a little further anyway. “We deserve more than their scraps.”

The markers burst white. He’s blinded by their intensity as the ground dissolves underneath his feet. The gelding’s panicked screaming is faint and faraway. Tears fill his eyes. He tries to open them, but he can see nothing but black dots and brightness. He’s squeezed, stretched, falling, and alone.

Until a hand grasps his.


End file.
